The Right Assistant for the Job
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: Despite the fact that he knew countless scientists and professors who would be appropriate and capable of this history-changing task, the Doc chose Marty - a sarcastic seventeen-year-old guitarist - to be his colleague. His reason for doing so. One-shot


_Just so everyone isn't confused out of their minds and wondering what the heck I'm basing the begining off of, I more or less created the setting. It's a pre-BTTF1 scene that happens while we're seeing Marty enter the warehouse and "rock out" the amplifier. *giggles*  
Did anyone else notice that the Doc sounded almost like he was whispering over the phone? Well, in light of the Libyan nationalists that attacked them in the parking lot *sniff* I thought that the reason might've been because he hid the DeLorean in a forgotten warehouse while he was building the time machine into it (it would explain his being missing for a week **and** where he got the metal/parts he'd need), and the Libyans found him after he was finished making it and was about to head back to Hill Valley, and he was hiding from them when he made the call to Marty. Does this sound plausible?  
Enough talk...Enjoy!_

**The Right Assistant for the Job**

He ducked behind the dusty mechanic's desk, pulling Einie with him by the collar, as the large, clumsy Volkswagen bus swerved frenziedly around the curb. The van skidded to a halt in front of the car storage warehouse and three dark-skinned men armed with guns that looked to equal each of their weight jumped out. Their faces were set in permanent snarls, and the first — the one who had personally addressed him about their requested bomb (as if!) and the obvious spokesman of the group — shouted angry words in a foreign tongue.

The DeLorean was a few rows away…if he could just reach it without the Libyans seeing…

He heard the heavy footsteps of three men spread out in different directions across the rows of broken-down cars in the all-but-abandoned automobile warehouse, his wild, brown eyes even wilder than normal as he fought to control his breathing and pressed his back as close against the counter as was anatomically possible. He held Einstein's jaws together and pulled him closer; the furry sheepdog, who had long-since grown tolerant to his master's strangeness, complied without audible protest. (1)

He gripped Einie and counted the seconds as they turned to minutes while the echoing footsteps and exasperated voices grew more and more distant. The Libyans were searching inside cars and under junk piles for him…

…_morons._

After a few more minutes, the sounds of their presence died out enough so that he could breathe freely — but he was still not quite confident enough to make a run for the DeLorean without fear of becoming the human equivalent of Swiss cheese. He'd just be forced to wait until they gave up their search, or at least got far enough away so that he could get to the DeLorean without the risk.

After several more minutes, he was breathing normally again, his grip on Einstein had loosened, and he was getting dangerously bored just sitting there waiting.

To prevent himself from getting desperate enough to actually jump out of his hiding place for the kick of it, he began to set his plans.

Once he left this abandoned warehouse in the dust and was back in the city limits of Hill Valley, the nationalists would never find him…his alias was much too verifiable for them to have the slightest chance of knowing it was a false name. He would be safe then, for sure, to try out his latest creation…this was the one. He could feel it. This was going to work.

Where to test it? The back roads sounded safe, but then again, Officer O'Connell — a brainless but annoyingly dedicated policeman — was stationed there because he arrested people left and right in populated areas. And he still remembered that time the Doc electrocuted him when he tried to build that bulletproof, brain-wave-controlled robot for law enforcement officers; his eyebrows didn't grow back for three months.

No, the best place would be the parking lot at Twin Pines Mall, after closing time at midnight. There would be more than enough room, no cars to risk collision, and, best of all, no speed limit. Good.

But he was going to need an assistant to help him with the first test run. He couldn't very well roll the camera and explain the scientific details of his beloved invention at the same time. No, he'd need someone to assist him.

He thought of all those who had worked with his father to build up the fortune he had inherited, the professor friends from Hill Valley University and other universities where he was a known name, and every other notable friend he knew. He went over every name from his past that he would consider capable of such a feat. They were strong men of science, and all he was sure would be more than willing to be a part of the greatest scientific breakthrough in all of history.

His brow furrowed.

That was all they were. Fellow scientists and millionaires, people with big names that he had no real companionship with, just casual acquaintances in his life. They weren't…_suitable_ for the job. Just as anyone would, he wanted to share this long-awaited victory in his life with someone he valued; he didn't want some unfamiliar, insignificant name beside his in all the history books. He wanted the most important friend he could think of — the person he cared for most in this world.

Sure to keep his voice low and the exchange quick, he picked up the business telephone from where it was mounted on the wall and dialed…

* * *

Still slightly off-balanced from his sudden encounter with the wall due to an overload he was unwarned about (therefore was not responsible for), he stumbled through the piles of debris to grasp at the noisy phone.

"YO!"

"_Marty, is that you?"_

* * *

Sixteen and a half hours later (_or was it?), _Emmett Brown blinked dizzily and sat up, feeling somewhat distorted and confused at his dark, open-air surroundings. Suddenly, the last few half-blurred minutes registered with alarming clarity.

He was going to have bruises the size of Frisbees from those Libyan bullets…

Then, his own aches and pains were instantly forgotten when he saw the quietly sobbing figure, collapsed onto the pavement in intense grief and remorse, sitting beside him with the belief he'd been too late.

It was in that moment he knew without a doubt he'd chosen the right assistant for the job.

**THE END**

* * *

(1) The Doc's eyes are brown, right? That's what they look like to me, but TV can play tricks sometimes.


End file.
